


Family Portrait

by LinguistLove_24



Category: Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-30
Updated: 2017-09-30
Packaged: 2019-01-07 04:37:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,557
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12225903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinguistLove_24/pseuds/LinguistLove_24
Summary: "Betsey was right, people could often surprise you. Maybe the dawn of a new day had some around the bend for them. No matter how many times she'd been broken down, she could – would – always hope."Sequel to 'Baby Steps'





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is (finally) the sequel to Baby Steps for those of you who were interested in one. I only had these two chapters done so far. I wanted to get more formulated before posting, but decided to throw caution to the wind and just do it. So here is the beginning. I'm definitely going to see it through to the end, but I'm not sure right now how frequent updates will be. Please bear with me.
> 
> Also, this is obviously Billary, as Baby Steps was, but there are quite a few original characters in this one as well and will be throughout. If that is not something you're into, it's probably best you don't read. There will be a fair amount of family fluff, but quite a bit more emotional hurt/comfort and angst than Baby Steps and it does start off that way. Thank you to any/everyone who sticks it out to the end, and to all my readers. I love you guys beyond measure! x
> 
> PPS: Thanks to inastywomanalways for the little push and help to get the ball rolling with this sequel!

**Family Portrait**

 

_“Fuck you, Amelia!”_

 

_The muscles of a gargantuan male hand flexed visibly as short, stubby fingers tightly gripped a tall glass, banging it more than a little emphatically against the wood of a butcher block style kitchen island. Fire and smoke danced together in the depths of green eyes, nearly set his wife aflame as his gaze bore into her._

 

_“God, Brent, you don't know when to quit, do you?” The woman opposite crossed her feet where she stood, an action the bulk of the island disguised. Biting down on her bottom lip, she was sure she tasted blood. She forced herself to look away as tears began pooling behind her own eyes, not trusting herself to impede their descent._

 

_“Neither do you!” Brent fired back angrily, losing steam. They had been fighting for what felt like hours. They seemed to do it so often now the incidents blended together. Each of them realised they were unhappy much more frequently than they were happy, but it was a truth neither party had the guts to admit out loud._

 

_“Tanner is sleeping,” Amelia mused quietly as a few lone droplets made their way forward. Brown eyes met green ones – noticing Brent's had softened – as she gingerly fingered the trail leaving track marks across her cheek. “We have to stop this. He's got school in the morning, we can't wake him.”_

 

_Brent nodded nearly imperceptibly, pushed the glass nearest him slightly away across the top of the island. “I'm sorry,” he whispered. “You know I love you.”_

 

_Amelia stared hard directly into the middle of her husband's face, his words rolling over and over in her head. “I don't,” she said flatly. It had been a long time since he'd shown her any form of sincere affection. “And you always are.” The last statement was laced with bitterness, almost tasted that way in her mouth. She'd forgotten what it felt like to love, to have those who were supposed to love you in return mean what they said. For so long she had heard words devoid of meaning and knew all too well the pain of broken, empty promises. Tanner was – in all his eight year old glory – the light of her entire life, the only one whose words she would always believe in._

 

_///_

 

_A bang loud enough to reverberate off the thin walls of their modest home jolted young Tanner Holbrook from his otherwise peaceful slumber. Dread knotted in the pit of his stomach, tangling with bubbling anxiety as fresh tears stung the backs of his eyes like pinpricks._

 

_A second bang._

 

_…”Fuck you, Amelia!”_

 

_His father's distinct lilt, native to their area of Arkansas, was always more prominent when angry._

 

_Glass. (Broken?) He would know that sound anywhere. It had happened before. He'd watched his mother clean the shards up off the kitchen floor, gingerly making his way toward her as she crouched down, trying her damnedest not to cry. His being there was the only thing stopping her, he knew._

 

_“Tanner,” she'd scold, looking up at him, voice cracking and changing pitch. “Be careful. You've only got socks on. Don't come too far this way, you'll get glass in your feet.”_

 

_“Is Daddy mad again?” he'd asked more than once, swearing he saw Amelia's eyes well up even further._

 

_“A little bit,” she'd say softly. “But it's not your fault, okay?” She'd finish sweeping up the pointy crystals, crouch down afresh to half her full height once she'd tossed the contents of the dustpan into the trash. At her son's level, a firm hand was placed on each one of his shoulders. “Daddy is not angry because of you. Both of us love you very much.”_

 

_Always, her answer was the same. The way she looked at him, even his young mind could tell she meant it from somewhere deep inside. Regardless, after so many repetitions, it often had the feel of a script being read back to him. Something memorised by rote._

 

_“I know Mum,” Tanner would respond sweetly. His answer was always the same, too. “I love you.”_

 

_It wasn't a lie. Always, he would love his mother, but always, he wished she and Daddy would stop yelling, stop fighting and love each other. Look at each other the way some of his friends' Mummies and Daddies did when he watched them collect their kids from school._

 

 _He would never admit it out loud, but sometimes when Mum and Dad were fighting, screaming_ really _loudly and sleep was impossible, he'd whisper into the dark. Over and over, he'd ask for a new family. One that didn't fight. One that didn't yell. One who always, above all else, loved each other._

 

///

 

“Tanner?” A woman, taller than many he'd ever seen, (something he'd been fixated with when they'd first made each others' acquaintance) stood in the door jamb, rapping her knuckles against it to get his attention, calling his name softly when this had failed.

 

Bright blue eyes almost smiled back when he turned to look at her, as much as eyes could smile with sadness of the surrounding circumstances mirrored in them.

 

“Hi Ms. Vivian.” Tanner's voice was soft, smile slightly watery as the woman stepped into the room.

 

“You know you can just call me Viv,” she chuckled as she crouched down to his level, facing him. “I've told you that.”

 

“I know,” the child answered her. “Sorry.” He hung his head, and Vivian pushed a few stray locks of brown, spirally hair away from her face, swallowing the growing lump in her throat. She was unsure whether the apology had escaped his lips because he felt bad for how he had addressed her, or if it was merely the only accurate descriptor he could think of for how he was feeling. Maybe a bit of both.

 

“You don't have to be sorry,” Vivian assured, voice taking on a calm, soothing tone. “I'm sorry about your aunt. It was smart of you to call me this morning.”

 

Tanner nodded. “Your number was on the fridge. Auntie Liz always kept it taped there.”

 

She nodded. “Can you tell me what happened?”

 

Tanner shrugged his shoulders.  
  
“I went into her room to try to shake her awake and she just.. didn't wake up.” Vivian saw the boy's eyes well up as he cast a gaze to the ceiling. Reaching out, she pulled his body closer to her and he nestled his face against her shoulder for a brief moment, sniffling into her shirt.

 

She sighed. Liz had been ill for a while. It had come up in conversation during one of Vivian's bi weekly check in visits. In the beginning, she'd had qualms about leaving Tanner in her care. She had been well then, but was obviously ageing. Logic had won out, telling her that as a social worker, she'd been privy to much worse, faced much harder decisions than whether or not to leave an eight year old boy with his only living relative who – by all other accounts – had a fit, stable home. Reunification with family – any family – was always the ultimate goal second to the safety of the child.

 

“Look at me, honey,” Vivian told Tanner thickly, struggling to keep her voice even as she used her hands to pull his thin frame away from her. He had stopped sniffling, peered at her seriously as he waited for her next words. “You know this is not your fault, don't you?”

 

Tanner bit his bottom lip, blinking quickly. He didn't want to cry again, couldn't look Vivian directly in the face. The brightness of her eyes reminded him of the glinting shards of broken glass his mother so often swept from the floor in the aftermath of his father's fits of rage. They shone, but there was a sadness in them, and this made him sad, too.

 

The first thing he'd noticed of Vivian second to her height was her eyes. They were a brighter blue than the oceans, and one of the first things out of his mouth was how much he loved them. This had made her laugh. A deep, genuine, almost guttural sound bubbled up from her insides and echoed off the school walls as it escaped. He decided then that he liked her, had continued liking her even after she'd crouched down in front of him and told him her name.

 

Vivian.

 

Even after the smile fell from her lips, taking with it the happy crinkles at the corners of her eyes. After her voice became too gentle, too cautious, and she explained in the most delicate way possible why she was there.

 

Tanner knew something was wrong before she'd even finished her first sentence.

 

 

“... _the school called me..”_

 

His face had contorted, he'd fought not to turn away from her and make a beeline down the hallway, back to Mrs. Tannenbaum, back to learning about maths and sciences in the confines of a classroom with a heavy door, where everything was normal and safe.

 

Schools didn't call random ladies in to talk to kids unless something was wrong.

 

His voice was warbled as he heard himself ask frantically for his mother. The answer to her whereabouts hung in the air unspoken, and his heart thumped in his ears, swelled bigger inside his chest.

 

“ _...There's been an accident...”_

 

Instantly, he was numb, his young mind had shut the rest of her words out. The only thing he comprehended, remembered even still, after that point, was that Mum and Dad were gone.

 

Dead.  
  
He'd heard people talk about where it was they thought they went when they died. Mama had taught him about heaven, taken him to church with her a handful of times when Daddy was busy. She said Daddy didn't believe in church, but it gave her something to hold onto, so she went. Listening to the loud voice of the man behind the pulpit for the first time, rich with honey dipped inflections of a softer, more pensive nature, Tanner saw what she meant. Why his musings about loving each other and God loving each of us even in the darkest of hours when we weren't very loveable could be force enough to bring people the hope and assurance they needed.

 

The way his mother had spoken of God, of angels and of Heaven, he hoped that she was there with them. When he'd learned she was gone and wouldn't be coming back, a moment that seemed so long ago now, he'd hoped she and Daddy were both there, that God had taught them how to truly love each other, quietly, without all the yelling and the noise.

 

“Tanner?” Vivian's voice pulled him back to her. Question swam in her blue eyes. He'd forgotten that she'd asked him something requiring response. “You know that this is not your fault, don't you? What happened with Auntie Liz?”

 

“I know,” Tanner answered, forcing himself to look straight at her. “But sometimes I feel like it is.”

 

“Why?” Vivian asked after a beat, waiting for his response with bated breath.  
  
“'Cause the night before Mummy and Daddy went to Heaven, I wished for a new family.”

 

The young woman's heart broke. She could've sworn she felt it disintegrate into a thousand pieces at the same time as an involuntary inhale. Tanner had never disclosed this piece of information to her before. Despite the warmth and camaraderie that had existed between them, in the aftermath of so much loss, it had (understandably) been like pulling teeth to get him to talk. Vivian hoped he wouldn't retreat so far into himself this time that she wouldn't be able to reach him again.

 

“You did?” Vivian asked gently. “How come?”

 

“Cause they were always freaking _yelling_ ,” Tanner said, face reddening, anger returning. “Daddy was always so mad, then he was always telling Mummy he was sorry. I sometimes wished for a new family because I hated seeing her cry and hearing them scream all the time. Then they went to heaven and I came to live with Auntie Liz and now she's dead.”

 

“Oh baby,” Vivian cooed. Falling gently down onto her knees, she shuffled close enough to the boy that he could reach out and touch her. He did. Unabashedly sobbing, he clung to her as though she were a lifeline. In this situation, standing in the aftermath of so much loss and confusion and grief, maybe that's exactly what she was. As she felt his little hands encircle her neck, his wet tears turning her locks slick with damp, she vowed to be the best lifeline he'd ever have.

 

There was the job, the paperwork, the protocol you had to follow, and then there were the kids you took home with you. The ones you always wanted to bend the rules for. Tanner Holbrook had quickly nestled his way into the corners of her mind and heart and was – each and every time she saw him – more rapidly becoming one of those kids.

 

“They did not die because of you,” Vivian said forcefully as she managed to pull herself away, wiping Tanner's stray tears with a palm. “Not a single one of them. Not because you did something wrong, not because you were angry and wished for a new family, nothing. I promise you love, this is not your fault.”

 

“Does this mean I don't have anyone now?” Tanner asked, gazing at her tearfully.

 

“You have me,” Vivian told him, trying to sound more confident than she felt. “I'm not going to let anything bad happen to you, okay?” As soon as the words escaped her lips, she was mentally chastising herself for them. She knew better than to say things like that to kids, to make promises she may not be able to keep. As much as she hated to admit and tried to prevent it, there were things that happened in the overburdened, all too broken foster care system that kept her up at night. Things she couldn't fix all on her own, things she wished never had to be a reality for any child.

 

But Tanner was different. No matter what protocol the job dictated, how heavy her caseload, she could not let this one fall through the cracks. She was all he had, his only hope.

 

Tanner nodded, pulling her out of her thoughts with his next words. “Does this mean you'll be my new family?”

 

She exhaled slowly. “I wish I could,” she told him genuinely. “But it's not quite that simple. I will find you a good one, though.”

 

“You promise?” Tanner asked, voice trembling as she stood to full height. “What if no one wants to be my family?”

 

“They will,” Vivian countered. She knew all too well how often children in the system bounced around until ageing out. How difficult it could be to find a family looking or willing to permanently adopt older children. But she had to put on a brave face for the one in front of her. She looked to the ceiling. If there was a God, she hoped beyond all hope that He could conjure a happy outcome for Tanner, that he could be one of the lucky ones. She silently prayed for the strength she would need on the journey to getting him to that point. “I'm sure of it.”


	2. Chapter 2

Hillary woke in the middle of the night, overcome with agony as cramps rippled through her midsection. Moaning, she turned to look at the clock as Tara's wails wafted through the speaker of the baby monitor on the night table. 

Three forty five AM.

Her pupils adjusted to the darkness and she took in Bill's form next to her, still fast asleep. She was surprised. Usually he woke first, was eager to tend to their children and allow his wife to rest.

“No such luck tonight,” she mumbled dryly, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and pushing through her pain to sit up before slowly rising to stand. “Not when I feel like death and could have used it.”

As she made her way down the hall, she debated taking a detour and turning into the bathroom first, but opted against it and held her bladder as she heard her youngest daughter's cries get louder.

“Mama's coming, sweetheart, don't worry.” She flicked on the light as she sauntered through the door jamb of the nursery, her spirits instantly lifting as she peered down into the crib of her wailing child, recognition lighting the toddler's eyes and spreading across her face. Wails tapered off, turning into intermittent bouts of sobbing as Hillary scooped Tara up into her arms.

“What's wrong?” she cooed softly, placing her on one hip and kissing her mass of black hair before moving breezily throughout the room. She felt cramps ploughing through her middle again, bit down on her bottom lip and kept a brave face for her child. Tara was usually a happy baby, but she became easily upset if she picked up on negative emotions in others. “Did you just want Mummy?”

Hillary made her way over to the rocker in one corner of the room and slowly lowered herself down into it. Situating Tara on her lap comfortably, she toyed with her chubby little fingers. “I think that's what it was, huh?” she questioned softly, the toddler's big eyes peering curiously at her. “You had a bad dream and wanted your Mummy.” Tara laughed when her mother smiled, reaching a hand upward toward her face, and Hillary touched plump lips against her tiny palm.

“That's okay, Mummy still wants Grandma when she has bad dreams too,” she chuckled. “Even if she can't always have her.”

 

“Mmmm,” Tara hummed, nodding lightly as though she hung on every syllable of her mother's words and was listening attentively.

“You just might make a good therapist some day, little girl.”

Looking around the room, Hillary began rocking gently back and forth. A smile crossed her face as Tara's eyes began to again grow heavy and she watched the young child fight with the prospect of impending slumber. The chair had been one of her favourite spots in the entire house ever since Bill had crafted it before their youngest was born. Maybe it was her favourite because he'd crafted it. Many nights during Tara's infancy, Hillary had sat rocking and humming, both actions equally soft in measure, as Bill stood in the door jamb watching his girls, total adoration in his eyes.

In this moment, doing the same thing with a much bigger Tara and Bill oblivious in the next room, it hit her like a ton of bricks how deeply she ached to do it all for a third time. They had been trying for a while, thus far to no avail. Betsey had warned her that it may not happen right away, asked her if she would be okay should it not come to fruition at all. Hillary had assured her with a confident sort of certainty that she would. She was learning of late that talking the talk and walking the walk were two very different things.

Slowly, she rose to make her way over to the crib, gingerly – reluctantly – placed her now sleeping daughter down into its depths. “Goodnight, my girl,” Hillary whispered into open space, bending to touch a forefinger to the tip of Tara's tiny nose.

///

Blood. 

She'd seen it the second she pulled her pants down, slowly lowered onto the seat of the toilet. The brightness of it was almost offensive against the soft white of her cotton underwear. 

Hopefulness had engulfed her, even in the midst of her agony. Maybe, she told herself, the cramps could be something else. Something simple. Indigestion. The flu. Something much less cruel than the arrival of a period in the midst of trying to get pregnant. 

Hillary lowered her head into her hands and sobbed. Deep, loud sobs that robbed her of all coherent thought and breath. She should have expected this. Should have listened to Betsey when she'd painted her insane for wanting more than what she already had, even if she was joking. Pregnancy had not been easily achievable for them, and still, she blamed herself more than Bill. This was her cross to bear. Sometimes at the most painful moments, when all she had energy to do was wallow in self pity, she wondered if the God whose plan she so faithfully trusted was rejoicing – laughing devilishly - at the sight of her suffering.

Reaching for the box of tampons at the side of the sink, she reluctantly extracted one from its depths and unwrapped it. As she emptied her bladder, cleaned herself up and fixed the feminine product into place with a heavy sigh, she rolled over and over in her head the different ways she could tell Bill that again, they had failed. She wondered for a moment if she should tell him at all. The look on his face every time she uttered a different variation of the same words – crestfallen and disappointed, opting to be the comforting presence in the midst of his own pain – broke her heart.

Standing, she flushed the toilet and washed her hands, splashed water over her face to rid it of the dried track marks of tears. As she turned to exit the room, she flicked the lights off with the knowledge she wouldn't sleep again that night, couldn't even if she wanted to. Making her way toward the kitchen, she knew what – or rather whom – she needed most.

///

“I got my period again,” Hillary said into the phone, emotional all over again as soon as she heard her friend's voice on the other end.

Betsey rolled over in bed, glancing at the clock. If it were anyone else, she would have chewed their heads off for calling at such an ungodly hour. She pulled half heartedly at the kinks in the telephone cord, untangling them so as to be afforded more footage, freedom to move without accidentally yanking the cord attached to the cradle from the jack.

“Hillary?” she mumbled, though she knew exactly who it was.

“Yeah, sorry,” Hillary sniffled, wiping her nose with the back of a hand. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” Betsey told her sarcastically, rolling her eyes though the other woman couldn't see her. “I decided to go fucking sky diving at four forty eight in the morning. Was on my bucket list and I thought, gee, you only live once!”

Hillary laughed genuinely, taking her friend's sarcasm good naturedly and beyond thankful for it given the current state she was in. “I'm sorry,” she managed between fits of laughter. “Stupid question.”

“You're telling me,” Betsey answered dryly, sitting up higher against the bank of pillows at the top of the bed. “But it's all right. Talk to me. What's wrong?”

“I got my period again,” Hillary repeated, calmer, though the admission still shot through her heart. “Just once I wish this could be easy for me.”

“Oh Hill,” Betsey sighed, using the fingers of her free hand to comb absent mindedly through her hair. “I'm sorry.”

“It's not your fault,” Hillary countered quickly, almost subconsciously. She was so used to saying that to friends and loved ones every time she was let down, that it slipped out easily by now.

“I know,” Betsey said, tone softening. “But I still feel bad. You've no idea how bad, actually. Sometimes I wish I could just have one for y'all.”

“I couldn't ask you to do that,” Hillary told her. “Can you imagine the headlines?”

Betsey laughed. “The secret lesbian lover of the governor's wife?”

Hillary nodded, chuckling into the phone. “That'd probably be the masses putting it kindly, to be honest.” 

“I wouldn't doubt it.” Long, companionable silence filled the line between them before Betsey spoke again, making Hillary jump a couple inches off her seat. “I wouldn't be offended if that's what they wanted to think.”

“No?” Hillary's eyes sparkled, eyebrow shooting upward. 

“Nah,” Betsey laughed. “Press is so hungry for any snippet to spin into a story it'd be fun to throw 'em for a loop, honestly. If I were a lesbian, there'd be no better lover to have than you.”

“Aw, you're too kind,” Hillary guffawed.

“You're welcome,” Betsey joked. “But you know I mean it. You're amazing. Brains for days, not to mention you're an eleven out of ten and all that.”

“Oh, stop.” Hillary wound the telephone cord leisurely around her fingers. “But thank you.”

“You're welcome. Bill better know how lucky he is.”

Hillary smiled into the receiver. “He does. But I'll be glad to make him aware of it again on your behalf.”

“You go right ahead,” Betsey told her, giggling. “Have you thought about adoption?” she asked after a moment of quiet.

“I've mulled it over in my head off and on, yeah,” Hillary said. “Haven't really brought it up with Bill.”

“Are you going to?”

“I don't know,” Hillary mused softly. “Part of me feels like pursuing adoption is, like, admitting I'll never get pregnant again and I'm not ready for that. The other half of me doesn't think it's something Bill would really be for.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know,” she said. “Just a feeling. Maybe I'm being stupid.”

“You don't have to stop trying to get pregnant just because you explore other options,” Betsey told her gently. “And you don't know what Bill is up for unless you talk to him. People can surprise you sometimes. He can't read your mind, no matter how in sync you two are.”

“I know,” Hillary sighed. 

“Talk to him,” Betsey urged. “You know I'm right.”

“Thanks, love.”

“You sure you're gonna be okay?” Betsey tried her best not to worry, but she hated being away from her best friend in times of struggle, hated the feeling of powerlessness and being unable to help.

“No,” Hillary said honestly. “Not at all. Just taking it second by second.”

“That's all we can do,” Betsey said softly. “I'll try to get there soon, okay?”

“Yeah. The kids miss you.”

“I miss them. So much,” Betsey said, voice thick. “They okay?”

“Perfect. Growing like bad weeds,” Hillary laughed. “Chelsea had a bit of an ear infection, but it's clearing up now. We're on the mend.”

“Tara?”

“She's fine. Fast asleep.”

“That's where you should be,” Betsey told her. “Me too.”

“Yeah, I'll let you go, you've probably got to work in the morning?”

“Bright and early,” Betsey answered. “I promise I will use some of my vacation time soon like I told you.”

“You're welcome any time,” Hillary said affectionately. “You know that.”

“I do. Goodnight babe.”

“Night,” Hillary said softly, moving to hang up the phone.

“Oh and Hill?” Betsey questioned hastily.

“Mm?”

“Talk to your husband.”

She smiled. “I will.”

Hillary made her way into the bedroom, crawled carefully under the covers next to her sleeping husband.

Adoption.

The word rolled around in her head as she curled into Bill's back, pressing an open mouthed kiss to his shoulder.

Betsey was right, people could often surprise you. Maybe the dawn of a new day had some around the bend for them. No matter how many times she'd been broken down, she could – would – always hope.


End file.
